En Passant
by AGBALUX
Summary: AU. Master Aqua has a secret. As a girl, she isn't supposed to be a Master, and she shouldn't even be thinking of entering the Tournament of Ira, where all eyes will be on her, both good and bad. But when she unwillingly becomes a pawn in a game much larger than her, she will become the center of a Tournament that will shake the world as she knows it.
1. Deity

_Why, Aqua? Of all the things, why did you have to break his arm?_

It hadn't been her intention. She had only gone out to buy fresh bread—and had gotten sidetracked by Free Market Day. The only day of the month that she could indulge herself and spend her well-earned coin, without having to be at the Empire's expense. Merchants from all over the world would bring extravagant spices, fine silks and fabrics, curious charms and magic-enhancers from around the world. And some of them brought her absolute favorite: _seashells_.

The Empire was mostly desert, with patches of green jungle creeping in around it, a ring of protection from the dangers of the Wasteland. Because of this, Aqua had—ironically—never seen the ocean, let alone a fish that hadn't been brought in from miles away. So, on days like these, she bought shells to collect, and shells to gift to her little sister. It was a small happiness, one she inevitably became attached to. The shells felt like they were links of the heart: strings of connections that tied her something that belonged to her, and she believed that if she collected enough of them, they would take her where she wanted to be.

She didn't know where that was, yet.

So she called a quick greeting to the baker to save her a loaf—she agreed happily, seeing as that Aqua always had some story to tell her, and they amused her so—and walked toward the bustling stalls, already crammed with desperate people, itching to spend their allowances and bring some color into their homes. Life in the Empire was not cruel, most of the time. It was bland, and a little dull, but around this time, it was anything but.

The Tournament was coming.

It brought warriors and royalty from across the globe, and along with them, a flow of money that made the rest of the year seem like a bad dream. The Tournament was reality—It was where the heroes got crowned and the ladies were able to visit the nightly gatherings, dressed in loose, beautiful dresses and brilliant jewelry. It was the time when people met their soulmates and fell in love under the desert moon.

She sighed dreamily, yet couldn't help it when sadness crept into her voice. That would never be the kind of life she'd be able to have. She couldn't be a warrior, but being a damsel wasn't exactly right for her, either.

Aqua waltzed from stall to stall, eyes greedily devouring every oddity, every strange tongue that she did not understand. Merchants spoke quickly and constantly, the air full of flying, wondrous words: " _Paprika, lobster, velvet, rapiers and oils. Coriander, codfish, cotton, tomahawks and pastels._ _Isn't there something you want?_ "

She was stopped by a voice that could not have been talking to anyone but her: "Pretty bluebird, gorgeous girl! A charm for love, a charm for luck?"

The more she thought about it, the more she should've just stayed away. Baseless magic was as useless as chance: there was no single cure to a heartbreak, because all hearts broke differently. Magic was something that, albeit wary-inducing, was intimate and special, and these dime-a-dozen charms were the opposite. She would know.

The booth was decorated with purple and green ribbons tied to bones that produced eerie-looking wind chimes. The table was covered with necklaces of lilies, bracelets of rubies and vials of glowing liquids, each as gorgeous as an iridescent daybreak. But what caught her eye the most was the seller: a man with a black hood, made of what seemed like the finest leather. She knew that it was a man only because of the voice she had heard, for the robe concealed any kind of physical trait.

She stepped closer to the stall.

"Ah, good girl. I knew someone like you would see what was needed," he said. She didn't have to see his face to know that the shiver that passed through her was the aftermath of his gaze eyeing her from head to toe. "Tell me, bluebird. Do all girls in the Empire dress as…" He drawled, and Aqua tensed. " _War_ -ready as you?"

She blinked. She was expecting the degrading commentary, the hungry, sultry voice. But the merchant sounded genuine, as if he knew what Aqua was hiding. Her clothes—black, tight-fitting and purely practical—were _fighting_ clothes. But women didn't wear fighting clothes, because the only ones who fought were wielders and woman were unable to bear the Keyblade.

So, unless she was doing it to attract a bad sort of attention, why was she dressed like she was about to go into battle?

Aqua didn't have any other kind of clothes, because she wasn't like any other kind of woman. The temptation to blow this man's mind was overwhelming.

"What are you hiding from me, pretty thing?" He asked. And the words were about to slip from her lips—just because he had _asked_ —when someone's hands found her body from behind.

Male hands, reaching under her shawl and coiling around her waist. Aqua snapped her head and tore herself from the man's grip.

"Aqua," he said, voice thick with want, articulating her name so heavily that it went Ah-koo- _ahh_. She regretted going out that day: she regretted waking up that morning, she regretted being alive. Because the guard had found her, and the moment he had placed his hands on her, she could not make him see the line she had always placed between them. And she couldn't protect herself—not here. Not with so many people.

His face was unmemorable, as bland as the morning oatmeal or a glass of water. Aqua didn't even know his name: all she knew was that the other woman had warned her about him, since he seemed to talk about her a lot, and it was always only her. Gossip between men went around just as fast as it did for women, only that being the subject of a man's attention was _much_ more dangerous.

She had made a terrible, terrible mistake tonight.

"Don't touch me," Aqua said, rage striking through her body like a thunderbolt. She wanted to run, but she wouldn't be able to run far with this crowd. She was trapped.

"You beautiful nymph," he said, inching ever so closer. His black eyes were fastened to Aqua's blue irises, and they would not look away. "You're the only one I cannot have. Aqua, Aqua, I could show you things no man has shown a mortal woman before."

Aqua's back hit the merchant's stall. Away, she needed to get _away_. Away from this man and his smell of alcohol and the implications that this could be her last night as a free woman. She would not let herself be tied to a man like this, not unwillingly.

 _Always running, always flying away_.

But Free Market Day was still today, and escape was impossible. Not when this man was a guard and no one would dare touch him. Not when he served the Emperor and they would be risking a whipping.

So they all turned their heads away from the sight, finding other things to be worried about. She was just a girl that was about to become a sad, sad story. Something to warn and tell their daughters to keep them from wearing specific clothes and going out in the middle of the night.

The guard's tongue stretched out to reach her cheek, her neck. She could feel his breathing, and prayed to the gods, just this once, for a miracle. _Help me._

"Help yourself," said the merchant with the leather robe. In the desperation, he had slipped her mind. "The miracle you've asked for lives inside you, war-dressed bluebird. _May your heart be your guiding key_."

His voice was a tempest, an earthquake, an explosion. It was everything and nothing, all at once. An order she felt in her bones, and the blade she held quivered with reverence.

The lights went out in the world.

At once, the hanging lanterns and torches were snuffed out, and screams filled the plaza. One second, Aqua was pushing the man away; the other, her teacher's Keyblade flashed in her hand.

The guard's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "You're a _wielder_."

Women could not fight—not with a Keyblade. Their sins at the beginning of time—when the first woman chose darkness over light, every single time she was asked—had cursed them, making their souls incapable of withstanding the might of the weapon. A female Keyblade wielder was unheard of, it was supposed to be impossible.

Aqua was an impossibility made into flesh.

She said nothing as she held her blade in the darkness, where, midst the chaos, nobody would be able to tell if her blue hair and tight clothes would've belonged to her or a lithe man. Her eyes spoke volumes, _Leave and I will spare you._

But the man only grinned vilely. "The things I'm going to _do_ to you."

He jumped at her and Aqua slashed at the air, her blade becoming an extension of her arm. _Be swift, be swift, swift—_

She knew she hadn't been fast enough when she heard the bone snap.

The guard moaned and gripped his now-limp arm with the other, teeth gritted. Yet the lust hadn't left his eyes. "Beautiful, wicked goddess," he whispered.

"I am no goddess," she said. She hated him. "I am a Master."

If there are no female wielders, then being a Master was out of the question. Only those trained for more than ten years could call themselves Masters, and Aqua had just celebrated her tenth year as an apprentice, along with her twenty-first birthday.

But the guard was not afraid. If anything, he saw an opportunity. Her knees clicked as the idea dawned on him. "If the Emperor found out about you, you'd be dragged into his harem in a matter of seconds. A wielder and an Emperor's wife, you'd might even become Empress."

Her mouth became as dry as the desert sand beneath her. How easily had he read her. Or maybe it was just a rational fear in any girl's heart: tied to power, but never would it belong to her. _She_ would belong to _it_.

She would become a slave.

"Shut it, shut your mouth!" Aqua was shaking. No, no—this was all coming out wrong.

She turned on her foot and ran.

Aqua dashed from the market, losing herself in the commotion, as fast as a fawn. But the guard's words caught up to her: "Run, goddess! You'll belong to the Empire now!"

She didn't bother to stop. That had been her worse fear: Keyblade wielders were more property than anything, what would become of a woman, who was already powerless as it was, whose very soul would belong to the Emperor? What possibilities would a child she sired have, if she gave herself to the Empire to do with her body as it wished?

She would not stop. She needed to pack—now. Aqua could no longer stay, she would need to pack and help her sister and _gods_ , what was she doing—

"You do not have to run away, child of light. Is this not your home?"

The first thing she thought of was her little sister. But Aqua had shown her well: there was no way she'd be out at this late of an hour. Still, the voice had been hushed and quiet, like a forgettable murmur. Something that wasn't of this world.

From the shadows appeared a masked girl. She was dressed formally: rosy, silk robes and an animal mask concealing her likeness. However, whereas she might have expected a rabbit or mouse mask, she wore the mask of a fox over her eyes.

Her first thought was _Ava Vulpina_. Her second thought was _costume_. Because there was no way that this could be the goddess of idealism, the goddess of _good_ , standing before her.

Even if every bone in her body was demanding that she fell on her knees, forehead pressed into the sand.

"Do you fear me?" She asked, curiously. The more Aqua looked at her, the more she didn't think that she was wearing a costume. Even in the dark, the rose fabric shimmered.

"No, Lady Ava," she managed. Aqua felt like she was going to faint. Not Ira Unicornious, patron god of the Empire and Lord of the pursuit of truth in battle, but _Ava_ , goddess of the righteous and flowers and all that was good. A god was speaking to her. A _god_.

"Good. Now Aqua… May I call you Aqua?" She asked, and Aqua nodded quickly. "You think that running away is the solution to your trouble… But what about staying and fighting?"

"What?" If anyone, Aqua would be the one to know when the fight is lost. She had nothing: If she didn't leave before the guard reported her, she'd be brought into the Palace with a wedding dress and chains.

She wouldn't let that happen.

"You worry about your secret. But why keep it hidden? What if you were to expose it—say, by entering the Tournament of Ira—and made yourself untouchable? The Games are sacred, my tiny light. Who would hurt you?"

"The Emperor," she practically yelled. The fox-masked girl had no reaction. "His three sons."

The sons were even more terrifying than their father. The first two were already veterans of the Tournament, victorious by killing their opponents. The youngest prince had not touched the arena, but that would change this year, for he had finally finished his two-year travels and had come home. He was twenty-three now, if she was even bothered to recall.

"Then _beat_ them, Aqua. Are you not the best warrior in this generation?" Ava looked closed to smiling. "Are you not capable?"

"Of course I am," she said, and blinked. She didn't mean to be arrogant, but her teacher's last words still rung in her ears, the words practically branded into her skin at that point: _Out of all my students, your promise of glory was rivaled only by my first's. Be well, Aqua. Be well._

What was 'well' at this point? Was it dangling from a thread of uncertainty, living in fear of being exposed, or basking in the glory of all that she could be?

Ava nodded as if she was reading her mind. "Be brave, Aqua. Swear that you'll enter the Tournament, and change the world. Become my sword in this city."

"I…" Aqua hesitated, even though her heart had already answered. _Yes, yes, yes. For my sister. For a better life._ "Why me?"

"You are an impossibility made flesh and bone," the goddess said. It was like hearing herself say it. "What better weapon to bring forth a new world?"

She hadn't thought of it like that. It seemed far-fetched, and most of all, she might be walking into an excecution. The wielders will not see her as an equal. Especially when she doesn't see herself as one to begin with.

So she surprised herself the most when she said, voice as clear as the night sky, "I will do it, Lady Ava Vulpina. In your name, I swear I'll enter the Tournament, and I swear on my Master's blade, that I will win."

Ava's smile was dazzling. Small lips lifted up and lighting up the night, in a very human way. "Summon your blade, wielder."

As quick as a blink, she was gripping her blade, moonlight shining off the iron and copper key. Her heart constricted at the sight of it. She missed her teacher.

"Child of light, you are the storm of purging, the rain of purification. This blade does not suit you. Temper your key in the fires of Kingdom Hearts, and make it yours."

Aqua chest throbbed. Her hand went to her stomach. The pain stabbed through her like a lance, a claw snatching something _out_. Her blade shone in a white light, and when her eyesight cleared, it wasn't her Master's Keyblade anymore.

It was something entirely hers.

A slick-looking key, toned in silver and obsidian and blue, looking like the ocean's shore at the edge of the night. Or at least, how she imagined it looked.

"That is Rainfell, it is carved out of your soul, and you are carved out from its magic. This is your Keyblade, now and forever."

Aqua admired the blade. _Beautiful_ , she thought.

"Go rest, Aqua. Tomorrow is a big day for you. I have taken the liberty—" she spoke with a crooked smile— "of taking care of your inscription. Just show up for the last fight of the day. As for that guard… Well, let's just say that just because I am not cruel does not mean I don't know how to be."

Aqua bobbed her head. This was impossible. She was in the Tournament—she was going to fight other wielders.

And she was going to win.

"Farewell, Master Aqua. Be ready for what lies ahead and remember: You are my storm, and you are ruthless to anyone that stands in your way."

Aqua felt her leave before her eyes saw it. One moment, she was in a bubble of warmth and protection, and the next, the cold Empire's night had fallen on her, like a cloak of frost.

Aqua thought of nothing else as she arrived to her home—her sister still blissfully asleep—stripped herself of her clothes, and fell asleep in her white underclothes.

That night, she dreamt of hurricanes and earthquakes. Of a tornado that was gone as quick as she arrived, and of darkness: overwhelming shadow, full of despair and hate and loneliness.

And as Aqua fell through the clouds, into the chaos below, a hand kept stretching out for hers, yet always, _always_ , out of reach.

* * *

 **AN: So, this fic, along with a previous one I have posted already (Wildheart) are part of self-imposed project to keep me invested and committed to my writing. My intention is to update every two weeks between the two stories (so if you follow both stories, it'll be one chapter of this fic one week, and another chapter of the other fic the next).**

 **ABOUT THE TITLE: _En Passant_ refers to a move in chess, which entails, as Wikipedia says: "When a pawn advances two squares from its starting position and there is an opponent's pawn on an adjacent file next to its destination square, then the opponent's pawn can capture it _en passant_ (in passing), and move to the square the pawn passed over." I think of it of an encounter, a confrontation between two pieces. But who is the capturer?**

 **Even though I preferred the other fic to this one, my beta readers adored this one a lot more. So I hope that you guys do too!**

 **-AGBALUX**


	2. Battle

After being called 'Terra' for so long, going back to 'Your Highness' and 'Master' was seriously chafing.

Don't get him wrong. It wasn't like 'Master Terra' wasn't something he was proud of: it was _everything_ , the only title he wore with pride, because he had earned it. It hadn't been given to him at birth. It hadn't crippled him.

 _Yet_ , he supposed. _It hasn't crippled me yet._

After a quick bath, he walked out of his room—which had honestly stopped being his room two years ago—, draped in the black robes that were saved for royalty. Once associated with mourning, the color had since passed to be associated with the Emperor's—his father—rule.

Dark and gold, he thought as the excess extravagance of his gold-and-diamond belt and cuffs weighed him down. He didn't care for aesthetics, but he didn't question their purpose: he knew how brutally beautiful the Emperor and his sons looked in the colors of dusk: always the center, always the glowering, ominous desert sun.

And he supposed, out of all the suns, he was the one that was most out of place. Hence why his father allowed him to leave.

But he had to return eventually.

So now, he was back in his home, every corner of the crimson palace shrinking away from him, as if hiding a secret. His hand twitched.

 _The hunger for battle_ —his father and older brothers always told him. It was the blood of stallions, of the god Ira that flowed through his veins. Only through conflict would he find peace. Only the cries of his enemies would lull him to sleep.

It was a very lonely existence, he pitied. Just as quickly, he pushed the thoughts away. He was a Prince of the Empire; loneliness is for those who had nothing to lose, and he was supposed to have everything.

The glorious throne room was always overwhelming, even more so when he realized that his presence was a part of the awe. Gold and iron, tinged together to make a lustrous, black chair for the Emperor, while everyone else just stood—kneeled, mostly—before him on the red carpet. Flanking him would always be his three sons: The two eldest on the left, and the youngest—Terra—on the right, alone. Although he supposed that would change soon enough. One of the wives was with child, and would give birth in the next few days. Now that boy—praying for his own sibling's sake that it had the luck to _be_ male—would be a sight to behold. His father himself had been born during a Tournament, and with it came a war blessing: physical prowess and strength and an insight to behold. Monsters, some would say. Gods, others would argue.

The next child was destined to be the next Emperor, and they all knew it.

Terra continued getting lost in thought as he waited beside the throne for everybody else to arrive. His father was not one for theatrics, so there would be no grand introductions, no music playing at his entrance. He would enter like a normal man, and be considered anything and everything but.

'Still the impeccable early riser, I see.'

'Only second to you, brother,' he murmured. Indeed, his brother Xemnas had arrived as well, and was standing on the opposite side of their father's throne. They shared a mother, and it was noticeable in their faces: the lean curve of their cheekbones, their long, dark lashes. But whereas Xemnas had gotten their father's honey-slick eyes and silver hair, Terra had taken a turn off the wrong path and had been spared dark, Oakwood hair and indigo eyes.

'You always were the good one,' his brother drawled, the morning light from above making every ring on his hand shine like starlight. Where Xemnas was supposed to have gold, he chose silver: silver belts, silver rings, a silver earring on his right ear. The move was deliberate, an exile of sorts, but he also thought it was acceptance: Xemnas had always known—even before the news of a fourth child—that he would be second best. 'The maids treated you well, I imagine.'

'Yes, because I _absolutely_ didn't have willing women in my bed while I was away.' Note: he hadn't, but simply because there had been more carnal pleasures to be taken care of at the moment. _The hunger of battle_.

Xemnas chuckled, voice dark and looming. 'Always the Earthshaker, I see.'

'What else would I be?'

'Darkness Supreme,' another voice countered. His eldest brother had finally decided to grace them with his presence. 'Like you should be.'

Where Terra and Xemnas were brutally beautiful, Ansem was simply… _brutal_. His face was a cruel one, also bearing the gold irises and white locks Terra lacked. That, along with his sun-toasted skin made him look devastatingly beautiful, like a stone that was going to cut through your neck.

He looked unkempt—his hair was slightly affray, and although his black clothes and gold jewelry were immaculate: his red-and-black cape was clasped incorrectly.

'Don't tell me you dressed yourself, brother,' Xemnas said as he ran a quick eye over him.

'Oh, this? You should know what this—' He began, but was interrupted as one of the maids walked in, her hair a mess, as if someone had been pushing his hands through it. Her dress had been strapped on hastily, and her face was solemn. 'Ah, took you long enough.'

Terra didn't say anything as the girl fixed up his brother, while he pretended that he knew nothing of why this girl looked so ravished and why she flinched away at the sight of him. She left as quickly as she had come, but not without hearing Ansem say, 'I was itching to see how you would've reacted to the punishment I would've had to give you should anyone had seen me like that.'

She walked out after that, and Terra tried to not hear the sobs that echoed behind her. No, eyes forward, he pushed the sounds away.

His father had entered the room. Soundlessly, but he still made the room's aura go affray.

The world spun under him. He was dressed in black too, the edges of his gown rimmed with brilliant saffron, making his eyes leap and haunt anyone they looked at. Xehanort was a wicked thing: gorgeous in youth, now sharp and dangerous in his declining age. His wrinkled face did not make him seem trustworthy or needy; it only added to the brutality of him, to the overwhelming feeling of dominance that he injected into every room.

Ira's blessing, indeed.

His brothers were silent as their father settled onto the throne, only bowing their head slightly in reverence. This man may had sired them, but they were not to show any sort of comfort: they were as threatened by the Emperor as anybody else.

Perhaps even more so.

'Terra,' his father said. An order and his name, at once. Immediately, he stepped forward, inching closer to his father's throne. 'Are you prepared?'

'Yes,' he replied. Short and simple. There was nothing extra about his speech, and if the classes he had been taking for a good portion of his life hadn't done anything by then, then there never would be.

'I was afraid you wouldn't think yourself capable, so here's a reminder.' Xehanort didn't so much as look at him as he said, 'You are _my_ son, and you will win the Tournament of Ira. Make the world remember that we are on the throne for a reason.'

The words that were unspoken were just as cold: _Do not let me down, and if you do, prepare for the consequences._

'Yes, father.'

'Good,' he said. 'Now let's let the world get a look at you.'

The Empire adored him, for some reason.

He was definitely the favorite child, seeing as that nobody was cowering from him and they all looked at him with stars in their eyes. Perhaps his absence had injected some sort of good in him: if he wasn't around, then they couldn't necessarily pin him to the cruel things his family had done in his absence.

In that sense, he was a bit lonely too. And glad of it.

Women reached out for him as he walked to the arena, clamoring for his attention. Etiquette forced him to be indifferent, but he still spared small nods and expressions that people could recognize as half-smiles. Ahead of him, people still cheered for his father and siblings, but it was entirely different.

'Well, _somebody's_ going to get a wife after the Tournament.'

'I doubt it,' he smiled. The guard behind him wouldn't have ever been able to keep his mouth shut. And Terra wouldn't have it any other way. 'There's no way I'm getting a girl before you do, Ven.'

'DEBATABLE,' the boy countered. Terra's best friend was a rarity by itself: a wind-oriented wielder that never enjoyed fighting, but was so good at it that he managed to become a place as Terra's personal guard. In public, at least. In private, he was a confidant—and he regretted leaving him behind, but Ventus belonged to the Empire. He was his friend, but he was still one of the Empire's dozen blades. 'Do you _see_ these girls? Do you see how they're dragging themselves for you?'

'Why am I the one who is constantly being talked about marriage? I'm the youngest.'

'You're also the one who the people don't think will have crazy, bloodthirsty kids.'

 _'Ven_ ,' he hissed, but it was true. The citizens dreaded thinking of a prince sired by Ansem, or even cool, collected Xemnas. They were too wicked, and any child was going to receive that, no doubt. 'They're going to cut out your tongue.'

'They won't. Not when they're too busy glowering at the attention _you're_ hogging.

Indeed, Ansem and Xemnas had turned their heads to face him, and hate and disdain and what could be jealously glimmered in their gazes. Terra did his best to say, _I didn't ask for this_ , and it seemed like enough. They turned and continued the walk to the arena.

To Terra's first match.

He couldn't pretend he wasn't excited. He wanted to run into the field, strip himself of the ceremonial clothes, and _fight_. He couldn't wait until he felt the weight of his armor around him and the pressure of his Keyblade in his hand. As a Master, he felt that nobody bothered to challenge him anymore.

In the Tournament, they wouldn't have a choice.

The Arena of Daybreak was as glorious, if not more so, than the palace: Encased in onyx and stone, it was a patch of night against the brilliant yellows and oranges of the desert. The people were storming in by dozen through the main entrances, so the royal family did their best to scurry through the back one. It did not matter that the sun was blazing and that the people were yelling and screaming for entertainment.

His fight was coming up. In a matter of minutes, he would wield his blade and destroy his opponent. His blood boiled with delightful anticipation.

Ventus had been wrong. His children would surely bear this dark blood in their veins, always itching for a challenge.

His brothers continued ahead and left him in his chambers, where the servants had brought his armor and nothing more. But not without saying, 'Ruthlessness is in your nature, brother.'

He nodded. It was the most encouraging thing they would ever say, and it struck a cord within Terra: It was a reassurance in his ability to dominate, to emerge victorious. He nodded at his brothers and with a smirk at Ven, who was doing his job—you know, _guarding—_ beside his door, he walked inside the room and put on his true skin.

He entered the arena after the announcer bellowed his name.

The opening ceremony was full of theatrics: the clamor for Ira's blessing, which had protected the Empire for millennia, the reverence at the Emperor and his sons, and the wielder's entrances: the crowd went wild at the sight of them, for they were pursuers of glory. Out of all them, they were the closest to reaching the stars.

In his armor, Terra was already sweating. He didn't care. All he saw was his opponent, on the other side of the arena, the wind kicking up the sand around them.

Demyx had never been a fighter. He was good company, and he got along with everyone, especially with the women, who he played for and danced with from dusk till dawn. He barely used his Keyblade, preferring his sitar to people. Just like Terra preferred Earthshaker.

'Man, of all the people I had to fight, it had to be you, huh, Terra?' He grinned, fully knowing he was about to get his ass kicked.

'I'm sorry. Don't even think of holding back,' he added as he summoned his Keyblade. The crowd grew wild at the sight of his copper sword, and his blood thrummed. _GLORY, GLORY, GLORY._

'Let the fight _begin_!'

Terra jumped into the shadows. In a flicker of a second, he was already behind Demyx, blade raised in a godly stance. He was too slow, and jumped back a second too late, Earthshaker running down Demyx's arm with cunning hunger. It cut into his armorless skin, and he winced.

Terra didn't register it anymore. There was only him, and his opponent. His hand was trembling.

'Come at me!'

'Why do I always get the busybodies?' Demyx did a quick gesture to one of the gods before he rushed at Terra, water clinging to the air around him in bubbles.

 _Water wielder_. Of all the rotten elements, Terra had to be facing one with _water_ as his staple. He bit his tongue as the droplets found their home under his feet, turning the sand below him into a mushy trap.

Terra raised his Keyblade to brace himself as Demyx slammed into him, forcing him to take a knee into the quicksand trap below him. But as their blades clashed, Terra reached forward with his free hand. His fingers wrapped around the tuft of shirt that poked free from his breastplate. With a single arm, he sent him flying.

Demyx must have not seen it coming, because the water that was holding him captive evaporated instantly, losing itself under the earth, under _him_. And as Demyx flew over his head, Terra followed close suit. His opponent had barely hit the ground when Terra was on him, his copper brow glinting with heat-given sweat.

A monster, he was a monster too. He didn't have to look up to see his father, smiling down at him. He could feel it in his bones.

He brought his blade down at the side of Demyx's head. The roar of the crowd was only second by the one that sprung from his lips. GLORY IN BATTLE.

'Hail Prince Terra, Earthshaker, Warrior of Glory!'

And in his bones, he felt it. The glory that seeped into him, like a mother's embrace. Like a lover's kiss, it threatened to devour him whole.

Hands still shaking, he let it.

He missed almost all the other battles except for the last one. It hadn't been his intention, but the praise he had gotten from his father—a stern nod—had made him so absurdly happy that he fell asleep after his match. It was only because he had to show his face at the end of the day that Ven had bothered to wake him up.

So he threw on his ceremonial garbs once more and climbed the steps to the highest level, where his family awaited—Ven was there too, standing guard at the opposite entrance. His brothers nodded at him, Ansem even laughing with glee, 'The boy who was promised shows himself at last!'

'I was tired,' he replied, taking a seat next to his father. 'My match was such a bore, I needed to sleep it off.'

'Nothing is boring to you,' Xemnas said. 'Not even the smallest parry.'

'Quiet,' their father ordered. For the last match had started, and the crowd was silent. Braig was back at it, it seemed.

Cruelty was etched into his mature face, eyes glinting with malice. Terra winced. For a guy who was in it for fun, he sure liked to torture his opponents. Pity of the guy who faced him.

And Terra could see that there wasn't much of an opponent to begin with. His form was lithe and thin, and a hood concealed his likeness. He must be trying to avoid become a laughingstock after Braig mopped the floor with him.

Maybe blood would be spilled faster than he had expected.

'Begin!'

Braig didn't move as he summoned his crossbow. An irregularity: his soul—albeit willing for a Keyblade—had taken form of another weapon, one more fitting for his sharp eyes and cruel intentions.

But his opponent had. His Keyblade was darkish blue, even in the sunlight. Tinged with silver, Xemnas would have been delighted. A glance Terra paid in his direction showed as much as his brother toyed with the ring on his middle finger. He'd probably ask to see it personally, if the boy survived the match.

Braig's opponent moved soundlessly, dodging his purple-tinged arrows with calculated finesse. He was like a shooting star, and the crowd could barely keep up with him. They cheered for him; how they loved wild cards.

Braig was relentless, though. He didn't stop, even as he found that his opponent was able to deflect his arrows right back at him with calculated slashes of his indigo blade. The mysterious boy was quickly closing the distance between them, and he didn't like that.

Terra was impressed with his speed. It was like watching a hare dash through a field: blink, and you'd surely miss it.

'Ever heard of personal space?' He said as he shot a row of arrows, all at blinding speed, and Terra knew that there was no way of dodging that.

And he hadn't. For all his speed, one arrow nicked his hood, tearing it away from his body and revealing his face. It fell to the sand ceremoniously, and a couple of gasps rang through the arena.

Terra's soul left his body.

The face was rounded, pink lips paired with curt, small nose. Blue eyes glimmered with rage and brilliant cunning. Suddenly, it made sense why Braig's opponent was so small and nimble, and it wasn't because of inexperience at all.

It was because it was a woman.

The crowd went silent with shock. His brothers beside him looked genuinely surprised, and his father—the unshakable Emperor—had gone quiet, a breath caught in his throat. Terra had gotten up from his chair, storming toward the edge of his platform. Ventus's voice beside him rung like a bell as he whispered, _'Aqua_?'

The first cheer rang through the crowd. A girl with raven-black hair jumped up and screamed, 'Go, sister! AQUA!'

The people wasted no time in cheering for the newcomer, their ranks filled with screams of her name and calling for her victory. Terra might have joined them, hadn't he been so flabbergasted.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of her. What kind of glorious goddess of battle had been born within mortal skin? A woman fighting—he hadn't amused the idea of a kind of opponent he hadn't faced yet.

And yet, there she was.

Full of bravado and a storming cry, she moved. Her Keyblade glowed with brilliant, violet light, twinkling like the coming dawn. And Terra knew what he was watching instantly, as the woman moved with stardust trailing behind her, magic poised to strike. He also knew that Braig was about to lose.

For this wielder was not just a woman, not just something incredible, but a _Spell Weaver._

Terra's smile was brighter than the sun above them. She knew what she was doing, for her gaze could've mirrored his in his own match.

 _'Glory in battle_ ,' he whispered, for that was what she was, and all she would be. Glorious, glorious, _glorious_.

And when her hand raised itself with that gorgeous blade, the yell she released—a warrior's battle cry—was mirrored by his own. He picked up the crowd's cheers and made them his own.

His true opponent had arrived.

* * *

 **I had written up these chapters a long time ago and it felt sad not to upload them. I think I might pick up these two stories again.**


End file.
